


A Little Slice of Heaven

by Jade_Sabre



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Cake, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Sabre/pseuds/Jade_Sabre
Summary: Hawke wins a baking contest and yet seems distraught.  Fenris investigates.





	A Little Slice of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loquaciousquark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciousquark/gifts).



> Written for my beloved Quark on the occasion of...many positive life occurrences, aka wow, this took me much longer to finish than I meant it to, whoops.
> 
> LOVE YOU GIRL.

Sweat crept down Fenris’s forehead, tangled in his hair, seeped between his skin and the band of his trousers, as he raised his blade above his head and held it, impossibly still, counting the seconds in Tevene as he forced his arms not to tremble, his grip to stay firm.  Thirty.  Forty.  Fifty...fifty-five...  
  
He brought the blade down with whistling speed, nearly slicing into the stone pavers, but at the last possible moment he twisted his wrists and the blade skimmed parallel to the floor, his body following the twist until one foot left the ground and he pushed himself into the air, legs swinging around as the blade came flying up again in an arc, his back arched until his feet hit the ground again and he threw his weight forward, the tip of the sword this time sparking against the floor as he dragged it for a moment—  
  
all for show, of course; these moves in combat would get him killed, and he’d learned them for Danarius’s pleasure, to titillate the ladies and frighten their magister lords.  He’d never particularly enjoyed them, even when he _did_ enjoy fulfilling his master’s every whim, and something distasteful still lingered on his tongue, mixed with the sweat from his upper lip, whenever he performed them. _Used_ them; they were tools from his former life, and as tools they were excellent for conditioning his physical form in times when he otherwise had no outlet for his skills. A break, as it were, from more habitual training drills, or from sparring with the Guard, forcing him into positions and angles he’d normally never consider, stretching muscles that otherwise might remain untested until a crucial moment in battle. And if he focused on his breathing, he could ignore the memory of the drums to which his master had demanded he dance.  
  
Always one for theatrics, Danarius. In some ways it sweetened the dance, that he now performed it only for the skeletons of the magister’s mercenaries that littered his front hall. _His_ hall, now. His tools. His choice.  
  
A knock at the door.  
  
For a panicked moment he thought perhaps he’d tempted fate, that his mockery—but no, he’d _know_ , and besides he recognized the sound of those particular gauntlets against the wood, and so he lay his sword to rest on a nearby bench and opened the door.  
  
Aveline and Donnic stood on the stoop, their polished guard armor glinting in the late afternoon sun, and the spring breeze that snaked past them reminded him abruptly that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.  
  
“Do you greet all your visitors this way?” Donnic asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“Only the special ones,” he answered, as Aveline swallowed a laugh and he stepped aside to allow them entry. “Pardon me. I was—”  
  
“Practicing?” she asked, nodding to his sword.  
  
He wiped the sweat from his forehead on the red band around his wrist and cast about for his shirt with the vague and sinking feeling that he’d left it upstairs. “Yes,” he said. “It has been—”  
  
“Quiet,” she supplied.  
  
“Mercifully so,” Donnic said, leaning against the wall. “The sort of quiet that comes before a summer storm, but I’ll take it while it lasts.”  
  
Aveline shot him a look Fenris didn’t quite understand. “Is trouble brewing?” he asked. “Do you need—”  
  
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she said. “Nothing unusual. We’ve just come from the Wintersend festivities at the Viscount’s Keep—”  
  
“The Viscountless Keep, more like,” Donnic said.  
  
Aveline shot him another look, this one more understandably aggravated, before returning her gaze to Fenris and saying, “It’s a horrible joke, but every official event that happens only underscores the empty throne, and the tension between the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter.”  
  
“Nothing unusual, then,” Fenris said.  
  
“Things continue as they have been,” Donnic said with a shrug. “No one’s overstepped their authority yet, though if you ask me—”  
  
“He hasn’t,” Aveline cut in, but Fenris recognized the protective glower on Donnic’s face from their conversations regarding the Knight-Commander, accompanied by beer and diamondback. “And even if he had, that’s not why we’re here.”  
  
“I know,” Donnic said. “I still don’t think—”  
  
“Hawke was there,” Aveline said doggedly, and behind her Donnic shook his head and shot Fenris an apologetic look. “As Champion.”  
  
“Of course,” Fenris said neutrally, though he wasn’t quite sure _why_ he felt such an instinctive need to be cautious. He and Hawke were on good terms, these past few years; he wasn’t surprised he hadn’t been invited to the festivities and certainly didn’t feel left out for having not attended what had no doubt been a tense affair of interminable ceremony.  
  
Aveline waited an awkward beat, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say; Donnic’s expression grew more apologetic.  “Well,” his wife said, recovering, “she won the baking contest.”  
  
“The what?”  
  
“It’s a traditional part of Wintersend in Kirkwall,” Donnic said.  “Celebrating the return of fresh milk and butter and eggs and whatnot.  Have you never wandered through Lowtown and wondered why every fishwife has a pie sitting on her sill?”  
  
“Er,” Fenris said, “no,” and then the rest of Aveline’s words caught up to him and he said, “She _won_?”  
  
“That’s what I said,” Aveline said.  
  
“She seemed very upset and left soon afterwards,” Donnic said.  “Which is unfortunate, as she was supposed to judge the fishnet knotting contest that followed.  They had to ask the captain of the guard to lend her expertise—”  
  
“I told you never to speak of that again,” Aveline said, her face flushing.  
  
“And I told _you_ we oughtn’t bother Fenris with the fact that Hawke almost walked out of the Viscount’s Keep without her cake,” Donnic said, “yet here we are.”  
  
The silence that followed was _very_ awkward, Aveline avoiding her husband’s gaze but not quite meeting Fenris’s, Donnic scratching his stubble while looking at the ceiling, Fenris remembering with sudden force that he was sweaty and shirtless and in no state to visit Hawke, not that he really had a reason to, not that he _needed_ a reason (as she’d told him countless times).  
  
“It does seem...” he said at last.  
  
“Odd?” Aveline supplied.  
  
“Yes,” he said, though privately he settled on _nigh unthinkable_ that Hawke would forget about cake, let alone _win_ something with her culinary...talents.  “Was something said?”  
  
“Not that I heard,” Aveline said.  “A few of the noble ladies _did_ speak to her, but I can’t imagine any of them saying anything—”  
  
“—that she would take to heart,” he finished, shaking his head.  And then, hesitating and wincing at his own hesitation, he said, “You think I should...speak to her?”  
  
“Couldn’t hurt,” Donnic said neutrally, although Aveline cut her eyes at him in such a way as to suggest disagreement.  “That’s why we stopped by to tell you.”  
  
Aveline’s mouth, half-opened to interject, shut abruptly.  Her husband smiled thinly and straightened, retrieving his wife’s hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow as she attempted to collect her indignation.  “If nothing else, you might as well try to get a slice of the cake, if there’s any left.  Lemonberry.  Really quite delicious.”  
  
“And Hawke made it?” Fenris said.  
  
Donnic shrugged.  “That’s what she claimed, and I don’t think she’d lie just to claim the title of Best Baker in Kirkwall.”  
  
“For a very limited selection of Kirkwall bakers,” Aveline grumbled.  “You could do at least as well.”  
  
“Ah, if only I had a title, I too could compete with the likes of Dulci de Launcet,” Donnic sighed, steering his wife towards the door.  “Anyway, good luck to you, Fenris.”  
  
“Thank you.  And good day to you,” Fenris said, following them to the door, shutting it behind them, and staring at it in bewilderment for a good minute or so before deciding that nothing could be decided before he’d had a bath.  
  


* * *

  
“Yes, hello—oh, _Fenris_ ,” Orana said as she opened the door, a worrying note of relief in her voice as she recognized him.  She stood aside to let him in, her shoulders straightening as she looked inward and said, more loudly, “Why, Master Fenris, what a pleasant surprise to see you.  Are you well?”  
  
“Yes,” he said cautiously, though she wasn’t looking at him.  “Is everything—”  
  
“Oh,” Orana said, almost a sigh, closing the door, “well.”  
  
They stood for a moment in the dim foyer, the west-facing door letting in enough of the late afternoon sun to choke the small space with burnished dusty light, melting into the color of Orana’s hair as she turned her head back to him and said, “You’ve come to see the mistress?”  
  
Before he could answer she continued, “Of course you have, someone must have—well.  She came home about an hour ago, disappeared into the kitchen—I thought she was leaving the cake for dinner, but then she came back out with it and a bottle of something, I’m sure Bodhan could tell you what it is, and she’s been sitting on the landing in front of her mother’s door ever since.”  
  
A cold shiver ran down his spine as his stomach sank.  “Her mother?”  
  
Orana shook her head.  “I don’t know, honestly.  Well—she _did_ say her mother used to make the cake, but she seemed happy when she was helping to mix it.  I don’t—know what changed.”  
  
Uncertainty washed over him, familiar and painful, and for a moment he felt a strong urge to turn around and leave, apologize and come back tomorrow, to flee and rethink his strategy (or appalling lack thereof).  But then a voice, slightly unsteady and echoing with hiccups, floated through the foyer:  “Orana?  Is there someone at the door?”  
  
“Yes,” Orana called back, and before he could stop her, “it’s Fenris.”  
  
“Fen—” was the only reply, followed by a curse and chaotic series of thumps, and he couldn’t have left if he had tried.  
  
Orana’s hand rose to cover a fond smile, though concern lingered in her eyes.  “Good luck,” she said, more quietly, and then she was gone in a rustle of skirts, leaving him to face the house alone.  
  
He briefly considered what he might say, in light of this new information, all with a sinking feeling that his best plans and intentions rarely survived their first encounter with Hawke; and then he steeled his shoulders and stepped into the hall, which proved empty.  No Bodahn, not even a Toby lolling in front of the fire, which smoldered with inattention and would soon be little more than embers.  It may have been Wintersend, but one day hadn’t been enough to chase the winter’s chill from the high-ceilinged hall, and so he reluctantly stoked the flame, adding another log, well aware he was stalling and still lacking any sense of how to proceed.  
  
He heard a clatter, this time from the general vicinity of Hawke’s chamber, followed by a dog yelping and a profuse apology.  Sighing, he tossed the poker to the side, its own clatter upon the hearthstones a sort of warning, and then he turned and made his way up the stairs.  
  
He stopped on the threshold of her room; she wasn’t on the bed, or standing in front of the fire (though Toby lay there, nose buried between his paws), or—“Fenris!” she exclaimed, with a hint of a hiccup in her voice, as she turned around in the chair at her desk.  “Fancy seeing you here.”  
  
“Indeed,” he said, aware that he was being too grave, aware that the fragile façade of her levity might crack with the slightest pressure and that his concern for her had always made her weak at the knees.  She stayed in the chair and kept looking at him with the same forced cheer, a waver in her smile begging him to smile back, and he swallowed and said, “I...heard there was cake.”  
  
He meant it as a joke, the sort of non sequitur she delighted in, but instead she turned away from him with an alarming speed, her shoulders hitching, her voice muffled as though she’d put a hand in front of her mouth.  “Cake?”  
  
“Er—” he said, and then he saw it on the desk, a white cloud topped with red berries, missing a few slices that revealed a yellow crumbly cake within, perched upon a crystal stand.  Involuntarily, his mouth began to water.  “Is that...it?”  
  
“Oh,” she said, forcing out the last of the levity, “yes,” and then she put her head down on the desk and started to sob.  
  
He froze, his hand half-lifted to reach for her, but before he could decide whether or not to close the distance she picked her head back up and rubbed furiously at her eyes.  “So sorry,” she said, “it’s the brandy.  Or whiskey.  Or...” she reached for the bottle resting next to the cake, turning it in search of a label.  “Whatever this is.  It’s nothing!  I’m fine.”  
  
“Hawke,” he said, as she continued to stare at the bottle with an intensity that suggested she hoped to divine its contents with the mere power of her gaze.  Or that she hoped if she stared at it long enough, _he_ would stop staring at _her_.  He merely waited.  
  
“Oh all right,” she said, shoulders slumping, slinging an arm over the back of her chair as she turned back to him.  Tears continued to drip down her scrubbed-red cheeks, and she only met his eyes for a moment before saying, “Who tipped you off?  Aveline?”  
  
“Hawke,” he said again, and she shuddered.  
  
“All _right_ ,” she said, though he thought she was more annoyed with herself than with him, “I’m not fine.  But—” and in a moment she was out of the chair, pacing past him to the fireplace, so close he felt the whisper of her robe against his arm, though she didn’t seem to notice.  “It’s so _stupid_.”  
  
“The cake?”  
  
“No,” she said, waving him off as she kept pacing, first in front of the fireplace, then around her bed, following an erratic path as if to shake off some unseen pursuit.  “Well, yes, but I _know_ —I know it never goes away.  I’ve been living with this long enough that I _know_ —but this stupid _cake_ —”  
  
Her voice failed with a quiver and she stopped as suddenly as if she’d run into a wall, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.  “It’s not even—Bethany was the one who helped Mother bake, not me.”  
  
He took a step towards her as she dropped her hands and stared into the middle distance.  “I was always too busy pounding Carver into the dirt to help, or—well, once he got bigger I usually lost—but anyway I remember wandering through the kitchen long enough to lick the spoon once it was in the oven.  Mother made sure I helped her at least once, and it was fun, but I wasn’t _good_ at it like Bethany was, and it sort of—it was theirs, you know?  Their thing, like Father and I and bad jokes, they made this cake, and it was for special occasions and birthdays and Carver _always_ —well,” she said, “it doesn’t matter.”  
  
It _does_ , he wanted to say, listening with an ache in his heart that was as much to do with her grief as it was do with his own _hunger_ , the gnawing emptiness within him that came from having no such memories and wishing with all his strength that he did.  Even if they eventually pained him, as hers so obviously did.  
  
“And...making it with Orana,” he said cautiously, “you...miss them?”  
  
“No!” she said, with a despairing sort of laugh.  “No, that was _fun_!  We had to look through Mother’s books to find the recipe—I only remembered the basics, and with baking you have to be _precise_ —and there were all sorts of fun little notes and memories—good ones—and Orana’s very patient with me when I’m her sous chef.  And it looked just like I remembered—no, it’s those blasted—it’s _our_ cake,” and now she sounded furious, and afraid.  “It’s the Hawke family cake, except apparently it’s the cake my grandmother always brought to the viscount’s keep for Wintersend, and her mother before her, and the recipe probably came from _Orlais_ and—”  
  
She stopped again, shoulders hunched and hands clenched, lips pressed together so tightly the skin around them turned white, and he waited; and in the silence she finally looked at him again, a cautious glance out of the corner of her eye, and he watched her breath catch, at what he didn’t know, and then leave her in a long sigh that made her shoulders droop and her hands flex, still grasping at nothing.  
  
“Orlais is known for their fine pastries,” he ventured, and her lips turned up against the weight in her eyes.  Encouraged, he said, “Hawke—”  
  
“All those ladies,” she said, her voice soft, and then she looked away from him and said, “all of them, de Launcet and her cronies, but even Lady Busson—all of them, coming over to me and telling me how _good_ it is to see the legendary Amell cake restored to its former glory.  How much they’ve _missed_ it, all these years, or the ones too young for that telling me that their mothers used to speak of it in jealous tones, and even _Bran_ was speechless to see it, though my grandmother’s been dead for I don’t know how long and Maker knows it’s not like Gamlen’s been competing and—”  
  
He couldn’t stifle a snort at that, and she half-smiled again before saying, “And I realized, when Busson was bossily informing me that it was about damn time someone from my house brought the cake—I’m _not_ an Amell.  Mother was,” she said, and tears began to well in her eyes again, but she blinked them back.  “But I’m not.”  
  
“Hawke,” he said again, more out of instinct than any sense that he might get a word in edgewise, and yet she shuddered.  
  
“But Kirkwall is my _home_ ,” she said.  “And I feel like an imposter, a Hawke in the Amell estate, but I realized—all those ninnies harping on me and badmouthing me the moment they turned their backs about how my blood and name have soiled this house, but this is their city too and I wouldn’t lift a finger to help one of them but I’d die to keep them safe.”  
  
“You nearly did,” he reminded her as the memory clenched a cold fist around his heart.  “You are just now realizing this?”  
  
“Oh,” she said, startled, and he remembered that for her the aftermath of the battle with the Arishok was a haze of sleep and pain she’d done her best to forget.  “That.  That was an emergency, and Isabela’s life was on the line, and I was the only thing standing between Thedas and Qunari domination, and I’d hate for history to remember me as having failed.”  
  
“You nearly died.”  
  
“Ah, but he died _first_ ,” she said.  Before he could chastise her further, she said, “Did you know the lemonberry is native to Kirkwall?  I didn’t.  We always had a bush in a pot, and Mother eventually planted it in Lothering.  There’s one in the garden here.  I wonder if that’s where Mother got hers."  Her voice went very quiet.  “I suppose I’ll never know.”  
  
He waited through the pain, as silently as ever, though it seemed to pass more quickly than he remembered.  “It never had berries at Wintersend, though,” she said, now looking at the rug as if she saw the fields of Ferelden before her instead.  “Far too cold still.  I never knew a Wintersend that looked remotely of spring till we came to Kirkwall.”  
  
“And I did not know of a winter that needed sending,” he said, and for a moment he felt the pervasive heat sinking through his skin into his bones, the cling of humidity mingling with sweat on his brow, the very air nearly too thick to breathe.  If nothing else, there were moments he missed being warm, missed feeling as though the coolness of stone was a relief instead of a curse.  The stones of Kirkwall held winter’s deadly chill far too well for far too long.  
  
But there were fires, and the warmth in Hawke’s eyes as she said, “Well, I’m glad we met in the middle.”  
  
Now the room was _too_  warm, her pink cheeks and his hot neck, but it was a warmth from within he’d never known in Minrathous.  “Indeed.”  
  
He was acutely aware they were both standing in the middle of her bedroom staring at each other rather stupidly, aware that it still didn’t feel—right, to reach for her, no matter how much he wanted to; and he saw the same recognition in her eyes, the painful restraint as she abruptly crossed her arms and said, “Well!  So.  Just missing my family and wrestling with the fact that I’m a Hawke calling the Amell estate my home.  A Kirkwall noble with Fereldan bones.  I’m sorry you were bothered, but thank you for coming, please don’t feel—”  
  
“I came,” he said, very carefully, grave in the face of her half-forced cheer, waiting for the smile to slowly fade from her face before he finished, “for the cake.”  
  
“For the— _Fenris_ ,” she said, and then she was laughing, one hand on her cheek while she hugged herself, and he had to divert all his strength into maintaining a solemn expression as her laughter washed over him, sweet and clear as a mountain stream.  
  
“Cake,” he insisted, but his voice cracked on the word and she started giggling anew.  
  
“All _right_ ,” she said, waving him off as he turned towards the desk, “ _wait_ , let me fetch plates, don’t you _dare_  stick your finger in it, I had a hard enough time keeping Bodahn and Sandal out of it, never mind Donnic—” and then she was gone through the door, leaving him to contemplate her laughter, his desperate desire to understand what fragments of memory were left to him, his inability to give himself so freely as she always did, to everyone, at a moment’s notice; but mostly the cake on the desk looking so particularly delicious as that it might erase all his worries with a single bite.  
  
She came back with two plates, forks, and a serving knife, “no glasses, I’m afraid,” she said as she set everything on the desk with a clatter, “and besides, the drink’s not _that_  good, and it wouldn’t go at all with the cake,” and with a _clink_  of metal on crystal she cut two slices and carefully slid them onto the plates.  She bowed as she presented one to him.  “Your cake, milord.”  
  
He accepted it with undisguised eagerness and within a moment closed his lips around the first bite, the icing melting as it touched his tongue while the moist cake dispersed itself throughout his mouth and then—the lemonberry curd, tart and creamy, and an involuntary noise of contentment escaped him.  
  
“You like it?” Hawke said, teasing, but as he opened his eyes he saw her take a bite with similar results.  
  
“You,” he said, “did not make this.”  
  
“I’ll have you know I measured all the ingredients,” she said, indignant, “ _and_  I kept the curd from scrambling.  And I mixed the icing.  And I kept the oven’s fire constant.”  
  
“You—”  
  
“That was Father’s job for the longest time,” she said.  “Even when he said Bethany and I were ready, Mother didn’t trust our stamina.  It’s not easy.”  
  
He considered this use of magic, how if he had heard it mentioned before trying the cake he would have decried it as hopelessly frivolous, how he currently could find no fault with it.  He looked from the cake to Hawke’s face; she was staring into the middle distance again, her lips upturned, her eyes wistful.  “When Mother did let us do it, we had to take turns.  It was a game, who could stand it the longest, though I was older and so I almost always won.  Bethany would try to get Carver to distract me—once he put a snake down my shirt and I almost burned the house down and oh, did Mother beat him with a spoon—Father was too busy laughing—”  
  
She sighed, long and soft, and finally she said, “Maybe I’ll decorate.”  
  
“Decorate?”  
  
“The house,” she said, and he inhaled sharply.  “I know,” she said, “I told everyone not to touch anything, but...it’s my house now, not a mausoleum.  And M—” she pressed her lips together, then said, very carefully, “Mother would be appalled to know that I’ve kept out the velvet table runners through two summers.”  
  
“A grave offense indeed,” he said, though he knew little of what was appropriate in such situations—Danarius had been fond of velvet year-round.  But she smiled, grateful, and he felt his own lips quirk and took another bite of cake, simply because he could.  
  
And because it was delicious.  
  
“And I really don’t like the color of the runners on the stairs, maybe I’ll get new ones.  And...oh, I can’t remove the crest,” she was saying, and so he took the opportunity to continue eating, “but surely I can embellish it.  Ribbons?  More of Isabela’s crude drawings?  Feathers!”  
  
“Feathers?” he said involuntarily, around a mouthful of icing.  
  
“Hawk feathers, of course,” she said, without a trace of irony.  “I’m sure I can find plenty around the Sundermount.  Or the Dalish might have some they’d be willing to part with.  Will you come?”  
  
“Now?”  
  
She glanced out the window.  “I suppose it is getting a bit late.  Tomorrow, in the morning?”  
  
“You want me to assist you in your search for hawk feathers,” he said.  
  
“Of course,” she said, and then her cheeks went pink again and she said, “And I can drag Aveline along too if you’d like, it’s her fault you’re here in the first place—oh, don’t give me that look, I know it is—and Merrill, or maybe Isabela, or—”  
  
“Whomever you think is necessary,” he interrupted.  
  
“Well,” she said, but she left _only you_ , though written clearly across her face, hanging unspoken in the space between them.  
  
It filled his ears anyway, and he quietly reveled in the sound before saying, “Just Aveline, then.”  
  
“So you two can sourpuss behind me all the way?  As you wish,” she said, and then she said, “You didn’t have to come.”  
  
“Indeed I did," he said.  “This cake is outstanding.”  
  
She laughed and shook her head.  “Oh, well.  Do you want to take it home?  I can always make another.”  
  
“Has Orana had any?”  
  
Her eyes went wide and she clapped her hands to her cheeks in alarm.  “Oh _no_ , oh, no, I came home a sobbing mess and swooped up to my room with the cake and the brandy and didn’t even _think_ , oh, I am the most ungrateful _wretch_ —”  
  
“Yes,” he agreed unhelpfully, polishing off his slice and setting the plate on the desk.  “I will leave you to your remunerations, then.”  
  
“Of course,” she said, “I’ll see you out,” and she picked up the cake stand and turned, wobbling—  
  
“I’ll carry it,” he said, neatly stepping into her path and plucking it from her grasp.  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him, though this close her eyes weren’t what particularly caught his attention.  “I’ll have you know I carried it all the way back from the Keep myself.”  
  
“You’d had significantly less brandy then,” he said, and she huffed and swept out of the room, but he could hear the suppressed giggle in her voice and followed with a irrepressible smile.  
  
She had him set the cake on the table in the foyer and opened the door, leaning her cheek against it and squinting against the light and looking at him in the way that made him feel as though she were drinking him in like a fine wine, savoring every drop, and he made himself put one foot out the door in defense.  “Thank you for the cake,” he said, unable to keep his eyes from lingering on the way the sunset painted itself on her pale skin, rosy and inviting, shading the crinkles at the edges of her smiling eyes.  
  
“Thank you for coming,” she said, “Fenris,” and then their eyes met and for a timeless moment the sun-drenched air between them caught its breath, waiting, and he could feel the whispered ghost of her lips on his cheek.  
  
“Hawke,” he said, and her smile broadened.  “If ever—“  
  
“I know where you live,” she said, teasing and gentle and far more beautiful, he thought, than he could withstand.    
  
He forced his other foot over the threshold.  “Watch the steps,” she said, not unkindly, but definitely laughing at him.  
  
“Forgive me,” he said, slowly backing away.  “I fear the cake has robbed me of my senses.”  
  
“A foul magic indeed,” she said.  “I’ll be sure to speak to Orana about making unsanctioned changes to the recipe.”  
  
“After you’ve apologized for hoarding the cake.”  
  
“I believe you were leaving,” she said, and his feet touched the street.  
  
“I am,” he said, but he stopped where he was, looking up at her, basking in her mock disapproval.  “Sundermount tomorrow?”  
  
“Not _too_  early,” she warned, and he stifled a snort.  “And only if you want to.”  
  
“If you insist.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Then I will see you in the morning,” he said, turning away with what little remained of his willpower.    
  
And then she _laughed_ , damn her, and he nearly turned back around.  “Good evening, Fenris,” she called, as his toes curled around the paving stones in resistance.  
  
“Hawke,” he said, but he didn’t turn around, and her delighted laughter followed him all the way back to his mansion.  
  
He paused in the doorway, surveying the bodies; the dust; the diffused, murky glow of sunset through dirty windows; and he pondered, as he stepped over a splintered bench he’d never bothered to move, how he’d never had a _home_ , per se, how this place still felt like a hideaway, even after all these years, how he had no memory of a home to call upon during the long dark cold winters of Kirkwall.  How could _he_ offer a home?  How could he take the home she offered, with nothing to give in return?  
  
He couldn’t, after all, and he’d been right to leave.  
  
But spring was coming, wending its way on the breeze floating through the cracks in that one window he’d never replaced, and with it the hope that one day—perhaps—they’d bake the family cake together, and he would stay and eat his fill.


End file.
